My first thought when I come back to life is that it should hurt more.

I reach for where it should be. My hand. My left hand, the hand that is supposed to hold my bow, the hand that makes me me.

And it's there.

No, not all of it.

"What?" I mumble, blinking, everything's blurry, and I touch down on wet fabric before my right hand, my whole hand, my one-and-only good hand –

That would make a good song, for kids, Judith would like it –

– is taken and held, intertwined with someone else's fingers from behind. Someone's behind me, both arms around me, yeah, one holding onto the fabric covering my hand to keep in all the blood, all the blood and one holding my one-and-only good hand, I already said that part, didn't I?

"Hey," whispers Owen. "Hey, about time you woke up. I was missing our witty banter."

"Dad – where's –"

"Sydney, it's Owen. Your dad's right down the hall, he's going after the guy who – who stole the weapons, who was just here –"

"The guy who –"

"Yeah, yeah, and Carol's with him, they're gonna be right back, just gotta wait a little while, just wait . . ."

"My hand . . ."

"Yeah. Yeah." He's out of breath, he's holding on tight, I feel his tight hold on my left hand but it's like pressure, not pain, not really pain, how can it not be pain? Merle had to have felt pain, and Hershel, I know Hershel did, will this last forever? Is it because I'm dying, do I not have to feel pain because I'm dying?

My hand, my hand, my whole damn hand, except for two fingers. Just the two fingers.

"How long have I – how long have I been –"

"Just a couple of minutes. You're back now. You're good, now."

I lift up my left hand. Try to. Owen holds it down. "No. Hey, Sydney, tell me about Carl. If I'm gonna stick around, I should probably get to know the guy, right? Tell me about him."

"My hand."

"Syd –"

I push his hand away and I know he could have stopped me if he tried harder but he didn't because he's Owen and not Dad or Carl or Rick.

I hold my hand up and pull the fabric off, where did the fabric come from? And I look, and look at that, a hand with three fingers and two gory holes. Three fingers, three fingers, I'm a three-fingered freak, but it doesn't matter all that much, because I'm dying.

"That's not enough . . ."

Blood's still coming out. Leaking. Owen takes my wrist and presses the fabric against it, holds on tight, no, ties it there tight. "Eight fingers isn't enough? Bullshit . . . I mean, if fingers were dwarves, you'd be one-upping Snow White."

"You know . . ."

"I don't know anything, Sydney, remember? I'm Owen, I'm just – stupid Owen, you're the smart one here, right? Come on, witty banter, give it to me. Make a dumb blonde joke, you've never said one damn blonde joke about me, and it's disgraceful."

"You know . . . you know what I mean, that it's not enough . . ."

A long huff of air, fast, strong. "Yes it is. Was."

"I'm going to die."

"No."

"It wasn't enough. Two fingers wasn't enough."

"Your dad said –"

"My uncle – Uncle Merle –"

"Lost his hand," Owen breathes. "I know. I know, your dad wasn't going to let that happen to you, so he – took care of things fast. Fast enough, Sydney, plenty fast enough."

"No," I choke. I lean my head back, tuck it into his neck, he smells like the black, and I roll my head away. "Carl . . . Dad!"

"Your dad is coming." Something cold against my neck. "And I tied – the chain of your necklace, I tied it into a knot, so you can wear it, here, here, hold the bandage on your hand, hold it, and I'll put the necklace on – there we go, tight, Sydney, hold it tight . . ."

I let my head fall forward as he snaps the necklace back on. He has cold hands, they feel good. I see a puddle of fresh blood, and dark red drag marks leading to me.

"I'm dying."

"No, you're not."

"I'm dying, Owen."

"Jesus Christ, Sydney, stop saying that or I'll kill you myself."

I'm dizzy. Spin, walls, spin. Faster! Go faster! "Stay."

"You already said that, I already said I would."

"Even after I die, though –"

"Stop!"

"Stay. Stay with the group. Do not leave them, stay with them, they'll take care of you . . ."

"Listen to me, Miss Dixon. If you want me to stay, you're going to live. You got it? Those are my terms."

"Those weren't the terms –"

"They're the damn terms now. I'm only staying if you live. So quit with the pity party and live. Live, live, you're a survivor, Sydney, that's what you do. You survive, you kick ass and take names, so quit with the pity party and accept that you're going to be stuck with me for the rest of my life."

But I can't and he knows I can't because the venom, the poison, the disease is in me and I can't fight it off, no one can beat it, my uncle couldn't beat it, and if my uncle couldn't beat it, no one can beat it, he was so tough, so . . .

Owen's little finger is wrapped around mine, the one on the whole hand.

"No," I say. "I won't promise."

"Too late," he says. "Pinky swear. You're honor-bound."

"The hell I am, screw you, screw you –" I elbow him as hard as I can manage, it's not very hard.

"Pinky promise, brat. I stay as long as you're alive." His hot breath in my ear, he sounds like he's choking. "As long as you're alive, I stay."

"No, Owen . . ." I wail, yes, I wail, because he needs to stay and I can't live, it's not my choice, and I need Owen to – "Stay, stay with them, you need to, please, please, please don't die. Owen, don't die."

"Sydney, don't die."

"Damn it, Owen . . . Damn it, Owen . . ."

"Tell me about – tell me about Carl."

Carl. Carl, Carl, I grasp my necklace, hold it to my lips, because it's Carl, and I sob.

"Syd – okay, okay, we don't have to talk about him. Talk about anyone you want, anything, just keep talking to me, Sydney –"

"You can't tell him I was going after the necklace. You can't tell him that. He'll blame himself. You can't tell him that."

"Tell him. Your damn. Self."

"You can't tell him it was the necklace. Tell him I love him."

"Sydney . . . Sydney, please . . ." And his free hand comes up to my head and presses it into his chest and strokes my hair and I let him do that, I breathe in the black, cling to a button on his leather jacket and don't talk anymore until people are here, I jump, say some words, Dad's face, Dad's hands, Dad looking at my hand, Carol behind him, Carol with a guy, a black young guy –

"He . . ." I breathe to Dad as Owen's arms slip away, as Owen slips away.

"I know, baby – don't worry, you're fine, you're safe, he's – things are complicated, let's just get you outta here, alright? Get you taken care of –"

"You shoulda taken off my hand."

His grip, strong. "You're gonna be fine, baby girl."

"No . . . No, I take it back, you shouldn'ta taken my hand, I wouldn'ta wanted that, you shoulda just –"

"No! Don't you say it, I ain't gonna hear it." Then I'm in his arms, cradled like a baby, and I want to walk but he won't put me down. Then Carol says his name, and Dad snaps back, "You and Owen –"

"I can't, I can't hold him up, it has to be you!"

"I can walk, Daddy," I say. I would rather die on my feet, anyway.

Dad swears and puts me down, softly, easily, but upright. My left hand feels empty and I turn, almost fall. "Where's my bow?" I see the black man, wide-eyed and watching me like I'm the monster. "Where's my bow?" I scream at him. Then Owen shouts that he has my bow and to go, go, and Carol's there, she's there and my dad and Owen are on either side of the guy who's killed me, helping him along because I guess he's hurt, poor guy, and Carol's got me turned around and I'm leaning on her or she's leaning on me.

Then we go down the stairs. Not as hard as you might think. Carol grips the handrail, I grip Carol. My head is so light.

"Carol."

"What?"

"Do you hate me?"

"That's a ridiculous question."

"I love you."

A long pause, then she's dragging me through a heavy door, and propping me upright again, oh, yeah, feet, need to move them, work now, feet, and Carol says, "I love you, too."

And it's not strange, hearing her say that.

I can still feel my fingers. The ones I don't have anymore. Hershel used to talk about how he could still feel his leg, I never could imagine it, don't have to imagine it now.

"Tell Carl I love him, okay?"

We're in the lobby, it's a nice lobby, with bright windows and glass doors.

"And tell Rick I'm sorry," I say, "Tell him I'm sorry again, and tell . . . just tell them all I love them, actually. And please, please keep Owen . . ."

"Sydney, that's enough, save your breath, come on." We've made it to the glass doors. Carol pushes them open, or maybe we both do. Out into the street. The air smells like dead people, rotting meat. Onto the asphalt, scattered with litter, nothing from Christmas. Then I'm falling, I've fallen, and a rush of air blows my hair all back and there's a loud kind of sound like when you put a shoe in a dryer but more than that and tires squeal, I croak out a sound because I landed on hard asphalt and because I also landed on my bad hand and it finally hurts, and I look up and Carol is on the street, unconscious, and the car that hit her is right in front of me, but I was with Carol and I wasn't hit, how was I not – ?

Carol, oh my God, I cry her name, I get to my feet, up, now, girl, up, and then I fall and just crawl to her, Carol, and Dad? Where's Dad? Owen? Carol. I call her name, no answer, I scream it, bring it on walkers, bring it on –

Two men get out of the car, I ignore them, gotta get to Carol. A big blue cot, they put it down next to Carol. Carol, Carol, Carol! Then one of the men is next to me. He says things in a kind voice and I grab his shoulder and punch his nose and my broken hand screams, and I fall and he catches me and then I'm in the air, kicking, screaming, biting, then I'm in the back of a car. I kick the doors, the windows, nothing happens, no breaks, no escape. I pound the glass, it gets bloody. I scream for Carol, I twist and almost scream for my dad, for Owen, but I can't see them through the glass doors. I don't see them on the street. I sob, sob, sob and scream and sob and bang my head against the glass, then start to bite my knuckles but they aren't there anymore. A door opens, cool air. A big blue cot is shoved back here with me and Carol is on it, and the top of the cot and so her head is in my lap, and I say her name and then a man stoops in over her and grabs my arm and I shriek, knock my head against his, fight, I'm a fighter, I'm a survivor, even when I'm dying, but he yanks and jerks and stabs me with a needle, and Carol mumbles my name, and that's all I know.

A.N.: Hey, beloved readers. Recovered from my abusing Sydney? I haven't. Ah, how we suffer for our art.

Speaking of, I would absolutely love some fan-art (I sound like I believe this story is so much more important than it is when I use that term, but it's the best I got) of Sydney - Sydney alone, Sydney with other characters - maybe even some art of Owen and Leah. I want to use personalized images for the stories, instead of just generic pictures. I also have parts of this story on other sites (don't worry, this is the only site where the story is up-to-date), and I would like to have some high-quality pictures to put on there. And, also . . . I would just love to see some of your interpretations of this stuff I throw out here. So many of you have been so wonderful, and I honestly, honestly love to see you guys so involved with this series. So, if I have any artistic readers (I have no doubt I do), I would love to see what you guys can come up with, so please message/email me if you're interested. Anyone who sends me a picture gets the next chapter (as in the first chapter to be published after I receive the picture) a day before it's actually posted. Anyone who sends me a picture I end up using gets the next FIVE chapters a day before each is posted, and of course I'll give credit where credit is due.

Hope I hear from some of you soon!

Also . . . new poll up!

- CR